the pigeon tries to stand and his right leg buckles.
he falls on his side, flapping at the ground with his wing.  
he keeps his head tucked and his feathers separated
to dry while the rain freezes to the sidewalks.
like a homeless man under the tall window he crouches  
quietly cooing they way the homeless coo
about whatever pigeons know of mortality.
fellow birds bob through the rain shimmering
like umbrellas as the water slides off their backs.
his every feather stands on end
resting his head against the brick he doesn't shiver
but watches, one eye on himself
in the reflection of the window the other on me.
i stand next to him as if hunching my shoulders could hold back the rain,
as if writing this poem could hold in his pain.